


Scarlet and Gold

by plumedy



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, No Broken Homes, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If you find yourself asking someone if something is a good idea, the idea in question is probably as bad as it gets.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet and Gold

“Lesley,” I said, in a dubious tone. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I’m dru-unk,” hiccupped Lesley.

To prevent her from falling flat on her face, I attempted to hold her waist in a delicate and gentlemanly manner. What kind of manner counted as gentlemanly I was not very sure, except that I associated this word with Nightingale and that I had difficulty imagining what he’d have done in my place.

In the best traditions of English Christmas, rain poured all over us, blurring the lights of the City and the bright red-and-gold neon sign we were passing. As far as I could tell, it said _Fried Strawberries_. It was a dumb name for a night club, and I laughed so hard we nearly tripped over a dead pigeon.

In retrospect, I imagine Nightingale heard our tramping the moment we entered the Folly, and the reason he didn’t come out was because no one in their right mind gets out of bed at 5 a.m. on the 26th of December – unless, of course, the bed in question is literally on fire. But back then I was very proud of what I perceived as having not woken him up.

“We aren’t bein’ very quiet. Peter?” somehow she had slipped out of my grip and was standing on all fours. I bent down to her, lovingly adjusted her mask, and made a vague shushing gesture.

“Lie here,” I whispered. “I’ll be back in a mo!”

When I put the thing on Nightingale’s desk and returned to her, I found that she had fallen asleep on the floor. Then I picked her up and carried her upstairs. It was a pleasant surprise that this did not result in either of us ending up with a broken neck.

 

I blame the fact that I do not remember anything of Nightingale’s initial reaction to our present on the tremendous hangover I was having the next morning. On the other hand, maybe he simply did not see fit to mention it when both Lesley and I were obviously barely capable of coherent speech. I, of course, had forgotten all about it and failed to raise the topic.

“Sir,” said I very softly, “is there… maybe… an anti-hangover spell?”

Nightingale gave me a long look. I felt mildly judged.

“Not a spell, no,” responded he at last. “But I made you some lemon water with coconut.”

“Thanks,” we breathed in unison.

That was one hangover cure I had never tried before, and I want to say it had done wonders, but most of it was probably the placebo effect. Still, it enabled us to consume our mashed potatoes without becoming violently ill all over the breakfast table; a fact for which we were all the more grateful when it turned out that DS Stephanopoulos required our presence at a crime scene.

 

The problem did appear to be unusual. Apparently a wall in the Newgate area had taken to shouting profanities at the passers-by, which had eventually – and predictably – resulted in one overly hot-headed fellow stabbing his friend in the liver. These practical jokes can only be so much fun; aggression, when put in the form of a spell – however harmless – tends to mess with the people who know nothing about magic.

The moment we got there was when we were reminded of that Not Really Good At All idea of ours. And in the most spectacular way possible, too.

“Lesley,” I called, tapping her on the shoulder. “Lesley! He is wearing it!”

“Christ on a cracker,” commented she with a look of utter resignation. “I think we can safely assume he has no idea what it is.”

“Stephanopoulos will tell him. Bloody hell. We behaved like complete assholes, didn’t we?”

Lesley sipped her coffee. There was a pause.

“Upon some serious consideration,” she said, “the answer is _yes_.”

Had we noticed it before, we might have been able to do something; now it was too late. Nightingale dived under the barrier tape, folded his umbrella, and strode over to Stephanopoulos’ side. The corners of his mouth were lifted in a professionally cold half-smile. He wore his regular black overcoat and, on his neck, a quality woollen Gryffindor scarf.

Lesley grabbed my wrist.

“Well, he looks dainty,” I said weakly.

Closer to the crossroads I saw standing two PCs and DCI Seawoll. They stared – at Nightingale and then at me.

“Peter! Lesley!” he was beckoning for us to come closer, evidently getting impatient.

Upon hearing his voice Stephanopoulos, who had been until now standing with her back to us, turned around. Her gaze fell on his face; then on what was below it. I could swear I saw her eyes bulge.

“Chief Inspector Nightingale,” choked she. “And a very good day to you.”

“Thank you,” replied Nightingale, mildly astonished.

Stephanopoulos still seemed to have trouble breathing, but, to our considerable relief and amazement, did not comment on the obvious.

“You came,” she intoned, “in connection with this… screaming wall business?”

“May I remind you that you called me this morning and asked that we come?” said he, tilting his head to one side. A distinct hint of irony crept into his voice.

We approached them warily. Believe it or not – Lesley and I certainly had trouble realizing it was true – the ensuing conversation had nothing to do with Harry Potter. Stephanopoulos kept mum about the scarf, which felt to me about as natural as refusing to mention a missing head or limb.

“Well, it does seem to be one of our cases,” said Nightingale, smiling at us. I did my best to look as if nothing were wrong. “Good! Just yesterday I was thinking you’d need some practice with this sort of thing. Come on, then.”

“Maybe she thinks he’s cute,” I heard Lesley whisper in my ear as we followed him.

“Cute?” I shook my head. My eyes were glued to the strip of bright red visible between his hair and the collar of his coat. “Cute, Lesley? Are you sure you want to apply this word to Nightingale?”

She hummed noncommittally.

“Anyway, we have to tell him,” said I.

“And have him take it off now? That’ll just make it worse. And besides, he’ll catch a cold. No; let them think it’s his sense of humour.”

As always, I could rely on Lesley’s sound judgement. Not that it made the next half an hour any less cringeworthy.

 

We told Nightingale that we’d return to the Folly later, and he, ever tactful, did not ask what it was that we needed that time for. Then again, it’s not like _we_ knew that. The idea to go for a drink struck us both as exceedingly idiotic. “That’d be the sort of action that causes people to get stuck in a time loop”, as Lesley put it.

Of one thing we were sure: we had to apologize.

“That’s not much,” I said gloomily. “He won’t be overjoyed.”

“Don’t fret, Peter,” chided she. “It was just a dumb thing we did. Didn’t harm anyone, either.”

“Excepting Nightingale’s reputation.”

“You’re dramatizing. They’ll make a couple of jokes about him and that’ll be the end of it.”

“More like a couple of months’ worth of jokes.”

In the end, we couldn’t come up with anything clever, and ended up going back like the unfortunate sods we were. The instance I saw Nightingale, my heart sank. He clearly knew. Who had told him I had no idea; not Stephanopoulos, I thought – Seawoll, maybe? In that moment I didn’t care much.

I wouldn’t have described his look as resentful. Rather, he had the kind of face you Photoshop onto the “I’m done with u all” memes. Somehow it wasn’t funny.

“Sir,” said I.

“Inspector,” said Lesley.

“Oh, go away,” said Nightingale tiredly.

“We wanted to apologize-“

“Apology accepted. I’ve seen my fair share of dumb jokes, Peter. Though admittedly I did think I’d left them all behind when I graduated.”

I sighed.

“It wasn’t like that, sir,” I said. “I mean, of course we were wasted and of course it was dumb as heck. But we… erm… meant it in a good way.”

Nightingale blinked at me, then shifted his gaze to Lesley, having reasonably assumed that she’d provide a more comprehensible explanation. She grimaced a little, thought for a moment, rubbed the bridge of her nose. Then she took the mask off. With a small jolt of satisfaction I found that I was too preoccupied with what she was about to say to fixate on her face.

“Hogwarts, the British school of magic in the Harry Potter universe,” she began carefully, “is divided into four Houses. They are basically like different faculties in regular universities, only it is your character traits that determine which House you join. Well, that, or you can choose one for yourself, but that’s complicated.”

I had to admit she was doing admirably – if talking our governor through the finer details of the Harry Potter mythology was a thing that could be done well. And Nightingale’s expression made me hopeful.

“Scarlet and gold,” said Lesley, “are the Gryffindor colours. The people Sorted into Gryffindor are characterized as having much courage, chivalry, and determination.”

“You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart,” I recited with feeling. Lesley gave me a look that could kill, and I stifled a nervous giggle.

“Yeah, that,” she said, blushing all of a sudden. “Point is, we thought that’s exactly what you are, sir. Courageous, chivalrous, and determined.”

“Only we were really drunk,” I added, “and didn’t quite think that through.”

“We apologize.”

Nightingale blinked some more. He was studying us very closely, much as if he hoped to receive an answer to some other, less obvious question.

I panicked a little, because he looked ridiculously touched, and I had no idea what to do with this realization. For once, Lesley appeared to be just as stuck.

Fortunately, Nightingale himself came to our rescue.

“Sorted?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“With the help of the Sorting Hat,” I explained quietly. “It’s a magical device that was designed specifically for the purpose. They put it on your head and it kind of… looks into your thoughts.”

“Sounds like an interesting procedure,” he offered. “Not that we can do anything like that in real life.”

“No,” I said.

There was a long and distressing pause.

“I couldn’t tell that to DCI Seawoll or DS Stephanopoulos, of course,” said Nightingale, and grinned.

I mirrored his grin quite involuntarily, and I didn’t need to look at Lesley to know that she was smiling, too. I imagine we all looked a tad odd.

“It will soon blow over, anyway,” he continued with a shrug. “And in our line of work you find yourself in all sorts of stupid situations, practical jokes or not.”

He rose, came closer to us, and managed to clap us both on the shoulder simultaneously. His hand felt warm even through the fabric of my shirt.

“Well,” he said. “Maybe I should read this thing. Or watch the films.”

“No,” I responded, “read the books, sir!”

“Yes,” said Lesley. “Read the books first.”


End file.
